


the carrot and the stick

by canctra (orphan_account)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Homophobia, Hurt Ian Gallagher, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rape Aftermath, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22957351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/canctra
Summary: Fresh out of jail, Terry makes another attempt at 'fixing' his newly-out son. It doesn't go well for anybody, especially Ian.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the end of season 4 and going slightly AU from the end of 4.11. 
> 
> Please heed the noncon warnings. Chapter 1 is largely the 'hurt' part of hurt/comfort and Chapters 2 and 3 are the 'comfort', so feel free to pick your poison accordingly. 
> 
> Thank you to filo and kai for the help and enabling. <333

“Again? You’re doing this shit again?”

Terry doesn’t answer, just checks over his gun, and Mickey tugs against the handcuffs in frustration. “When are you gonna get it through your fat head, huh? I don’t care how many bored whores you haul in here, no magic muff is gonna suddenly turn me straight. So if you’re gonna shoot me, quit standin’ there like a pussy and just do it already.”

His head throbs as he speaks, the concussion making itself known from where Terry and his idiot friend knocked him over the head and bundled him into the trunk, but he’s glad to still be wearing his clothes as he tests the tape binding his ankles to the chair.

He hears the splutter of an engine outside and looks in the direction of the noise. “What, is that your hooker of the week? Try Romanian this time. Maybe Polish. Since apparently I’m immune to Russian snatch.”

Terry stands up with a sigh and Mickey pulls on the cuffs again without success. 

Fear crawls through him, unpleasant flashbacks to the last time Terry tried to ‘fix’ him, and as he listens to the muffled voices outside, he’s at least grateful that Ian isn’t being made to watch this time.

That gratitude lasts all of the eight seconds it takes for Terry’s two friends to kick open the door to the warehouse and haul Ian inside with them.

“The fuck?” Mickey yells. “Jesus fucking Christ, dad, let him go! I’m the fag son, remember? What do you care which way a fuckin’ Gallagher swings?”

Ian is conscious at least, although that isn’t much of a comfort when he’s thrown to the ground at Mickey’s feet with a groan. Blood is smeared across his face from injuries to his cheek and from the way Ian struggles to focus as he looks around, Mickey knows he isn’t the only one nursing a concussion.

“Mickey?” Ian asks as he drags himself up to his knees, his hands cuffed behind his back like Mickey’s. 

He sways, blinking blood out of his eyes, and Mickey can see the second panic sets in when he takes in their situation. “Shit.”

“I went to one of these training days in prison,” Terry says. His voice is loud above the nervous sound of Ian’s breathing and he sounds way calmer than Mickey is comfortable with. “About being a good parent or some shit.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Better late than never, I guess? Surprised they didn’t write you off as a lost fuckin’ cause.”

“And sure,” Terry continues, unfazed, “maybe I was only there because I was being paid to cut some asshole’s leg half-off and that was the best way to get him alone, but that teacher prick said some useful shit. About a carrot and a stick. And I realized maybe I was going about this the wrong way.”

“Oh, you think?” Mickey says sarcastically. “Wow, I can’t believe making me knock up some Russian skank was a bad plan. Never could’ve seen that coming.”

“I was too good to you,” Terry says. There’s a dark glint in his eyes and Mickey does his best not to look at Ian. He can take a lot of shit from his father but he knows there’s only so long his bravado can last when Ian’s at risk too. “Too much carrot, you know?”

Ian frowns, looking between Terry and Mickey. “A-Am I the carrot?”

Terry ignores him, talking only to Mickey, “I catch you getting your ass reamed by some fairy and I try to help you. I bring you one of my best whores, get her to give you the ride of your fuckin’ life, and I set you back on the straight and narrow. I did you a favor, and this is how you repay me.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “A fuckin’ favor? Did someone finally smack that last braincell out of your head? Newsflash, pa: you forcing some whore to fuck the gay out of me doesn’t count as a favor!”

He’s almost relieved when Terry steps forward and backhands him hard across the face. His cheek stings, his teeth cutting into the inside of his mouth, and Mickey spits the blood gathering onto his tongue onto the floor. 

“Is this the part where you beat the shit out of me again?” he asks, rolling his shoulders as much as the cuffs allow. “God, I hope so. I’m bored as fuck listening to you yap about this self-help shit.”

“I did you a favor,” Terry says again, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Mickey. “Gave you a carrot. But that didn’t work, and so now I’m realizing I should’ve tried the stick.”

Mickey shakes his head, lost. “Carrot? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Mickey…” Ian says, and when Mickey looks over, his eyes are wide with fear. “I-It’s a reward and punishment thing. Monica used to say it. You try and get kids to do what you want by bribing them-”

“With a fuckin’ carrot? What kind of fucked-up-”

“With a whore,” Ian says pointedly. “With Svetlana. And when that doesn’t work, you beat the crap out of them. Until they don’t want to do it anymore.”

Realization settles in and Mickey looks up at his father in confusion. “That’s what this shit is about? Jesus, pa, you could’ve just pistol-whipped me at the house again; you didn’t need all this kidnapping bullshit.”

“Mickey-” Ian says again, but is cut off by Terry’s bark.

“Enough whining!” He nods to his friends — Stan, Nate, and John maybe? Mickey loses track of the meatheads his dad hangs out with — and takes a step back. “Get on with it.”

Mickey balls his hands into fists, bracing for the blows from the bats or tire irons or whatever else these morons have in store, but he does a double-take when one of them (Nate? He’s going with Nate.) punches Ian hard across the face.

“What the-”

The punch knocks Ian off balance and without his hands to catch himself, he falls hard to the ground. John is on him in an instant but Mickey’s shouts die on his tongue when, far from beating Ian further, John’s thick hands grab at the back of Ian’s jeans and haul them down over his ass. 

All of a sudden, both Mickey and Ian are yelling at the same time.

“No!” Ian kicks out, trying desperately to squirm away, but Stan is on him too, sitting on his back to crush his face and chest against the ground. 

Ian keeps fighting, arms twisting in the cuffs and legs flailing, but each of Terry’s friends has got to be double his weight, and it doesn’t take them long before they have him pinned, jeans and underwear down and bare ass exposed. “No, Terry, no!”

“You fuckin’ psycho,” Mickey spits at his father. “What the fuck are you doing? Get the hell off him!”

Nate has his dick in his hand, smearing lube over his half-hard length, and Mickey looks away with a grimace of disgust. “Put that away, you fuckin’ perv. Dad! Pa, this is fucked up! Even for your maniac ass. You wanna beat the shit out of us, fine, but Christ, this is-”

Evidently satisfied, Nate looks to Terry for a nod of approval before he kneels down between Ian’s legs. Ian’s jeans are more of a hindrance then anything and Mickey’s eyes widen as Nate pulls out a wicked-looking knife and uses it to tear through the denim, allowing him to force Ian’s legs wider apart.

Ian is still struggling, still telling them to stop even as Nate climbs on top of him, and Mickey looks up at his father, the last of his bravado falling away. “Pa, please! I’m the fag, I’m the one who loves taking a cock up his ass so much. You want these idiots to make someone swear off dick, I’m right here. Just don’t…”

Terry wrinkles his nose. “You really think I’m going to let anyone run a train on a Milkovich? No. This’ll teach this fuckin’ fag not to shove his dick where it’s not wanted and it’ll teach you that this shit is fuckin’ disgusting.” 

Nate hesitates, looking up at Terry, and Mickey kicks helplessly against the tape when Terry orders, “Get on with it, dickweed. I don’t want to spend my whole night watching you humping this queer’s ass.”

Nate shrugs, and Mickey’s pleas for him to stop are drowned out by Ian’s yell of pain when he forces his way inside. He keeps fighting, longer than Mickey thought he would, but as Nate fucks into him rough and mercilessly, Ian’s shouts of protest soon turn to sobs. 

Terry moves to his side, stuffing a rag into Mickey’s mouth to keep him quiet when Mickey’s furious yells move onto the subject of Terry’s own sick perversions. Otherwise he just grips Mickey’s hair and forces him to watch Ian struggle and plead under the hands of the three men.

They take their turns, Nate, John and Stan all tagging in to rape Mickey’s boyfriend in front of him. Nate is quick and rough, using Ian’s body like a fucking fleshlight, before pulling off to let John take his place. Ian cries out as John enters him but he’s beaten down enough that he doesn’t need anyone else to restrain him, although that apparently doesn’t stop John from holding his cuffed arms up until Mickey’s sure Ian’s shoulders are about to dislocate. 

Stan goes last and Mickey swallows down the vomit that rises in his throat when Terry orders Stan to show Mickey exactly what he’s missing. 

Stan’s hand curls around Ian’s throat, gripping tight enough to bruise as he hauls Ian upright, knees on the ground and Stan’s foul fucking cock still pounding into him. Ian’s limp in his grasp, lips parted in a weak groan and tears running down his cheeks, and Mickey blinks back tears of his own when Ian’s pained, empty eyes meet his.

He curses at Terry through the rag in his mouth, promising death and worse, but there’s nothing he can do when Stan shoves Ian back to the ground and pulls out before coming in thick spurts over his ass and thighs.

“Finally,” Terry says with a sigh. 

Palming his gun, he strolls over and kicks Ian in the shoulder, rolling him over onto his back. Ian stares up at him, chest rising and falling with the short, panicked breaths he’s taking, and he cries out in terror when Terry bends down and pushes the barrel of the gun past his lips. 

“No!” Mickey yells. “No, fuck! You already raped him, don’t you dare fuckin’ do this!”

Terry ignores his garbled shouts as he looks down at Ian. “Now, this was mostly to teach my faggot son a lesson, but since Frank obviously didn’t fuckin’ raise you right, consider this a lesson to you too. You put that cock anywhere near a Milkovich again, and I chop it off, understand?”

Ian nods, tears spilling from his eyes, but he cries out when Terry clicks the safety off. “That was a question, Gallagher.”

“Yes,” Ian says, the words muffled by the gun but their intention clear nonetheless. “I understand, I understand. Please…”

Terry pulls the gun out and brings it down across Ian’s cheek in one swift motion. The crack of the butt of the gun against his face goes right to Mickey’s bones and the only fleeting mercy comes when Ian slumps to the ground, unconscious.

Satisfied, Terry holsters the gun and turns back to Mickey, giving him a firm pat on the cheek. “I don’t think you’ll be dreaming of dick any time soon, right, _son_?”

Mickey shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off Ian. 

Terry smirks. “See? The stick. Fuck the goddamn carrot, I always gotta go with the stick now.” He motions to his friends and then reaches behind Mickey, pressing the key to the cuffs into his hand. “You can show yourselves out, right?”

And then, with one final mocking slap to Mickey’s cheek, he’s gone, leaving Mickey alone with his boyfriend raped and beaten unconscious at his feet.

Mickey’s pretty sure a bullet to the head for both of them would’ve been kinder.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes him four attempts to get the tiny key in the lock of the handcuffs, and then another two attempts to untangle his ankles from the tape binding them to the chair. 

Finally free, Mickey staggers to his feet, grimacing at the way his head spins when he does so, but when Ian doesn’t stir, Mickey decides to deal with one problem at a time.

Taking advantage of the brief moment of solitude, he moves over to retrieve his stuff from where Terry dumped it once he’d finished going through Mickey’s pockets. It’s all still there, save for a couple of twenties that one of Terry’s asshole friends apparently took, and Mickey curses under his breath as he tucks his (fucking useless) gun back into the waistband of his pants.

“Fuck.”

Unwanted tears sting at his eyes and he blinks them back angrily as he knocks his fist against the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The knock turns to a tap turns to a punch, the swearing getting louder as he slams his fist into the solid wall in frustration. His knuckles leave smears of blood behind and when Mickey finally stops, he’s almost grateful for the sharp pain that lingers. 

Ian’s still out cold when he walks back over, although Mickey isn’t sure whether it’s from the pistol-whipping or just straight-up exhaustion. It’s easy enough to roll him over onto his stomach to access the cuffs holding his hands behind his back but Mickey’s chest tightens at the sight of the blood-streaked come dripping from between Ian’s thighs.

“I’m going to fuckin’ kill him,” Mickey promises, more to himself than Ian. “Him and his shit-for-brains friends. I’m going to cut their fuckin’ balls off, shove them down their throat, and watch them choke to death on their own pubes.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, anger building. “Fuck, I should’ve killed him when he pulled this shit last time. I didn’t think he’d-”

He cuts himself off, unsure how to shape his guilt into words. 

He nudges Ian over onto his back again, wincing in sympathy at the sight of the wound left by the butt of Terry’s gun, and shakes his shoulder as he says, “Gallagher? You with me?”

Ian’s eyelids flicker and Mickey snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Yo, Ian. Wake up, man.”

Ian comes back to consciousness with a jolt, eyes darting and terrified and hands instantly coming up to defend himself. “What-”

Mickey can see every step of realization on Ian’s face as he winces, raises a hand to his bloodied face, and then goes still with horror when the pain elsewhere in his body makes itself known. His face turns even paler beneath the blood and he looks up at Mickey in shock. “Mick-”

“I know,” Mickey says. His smile is tight and mirthless. “Always knew my dad was a piece of shit but didn’t realize he was this big of a piece of shit. You okay?”

It’s a dumb question and Ian’s answering nod is a lie that seems easiest to just accept.

“I’ll get you home,” Mickey says. They both know hospital is not an option but Mickey gestures to Ian’s head wound when he adds, “That’s going to hurt like a motherfucker. Make you feel all nauseous and shit. You gotta have someone check to make sure you don’t keep passing out or something.”

It seems obvious that the ‘someone’ won’t be — can’t be — Mickey right now and he’s relieved when Ian just nods again. “I know what a concussion feels like, Mickey.”

“Right.”

An uneasy silence settles for a moment but Mickey refuses to let it linger as he stands back upright. “You want my jeans or my underwear?”

Ian blinks. “Your what?”

Mickey gestures to Ian’s own pants and boxers. He’s still wearing them, technically, but after Terry’s friend went at them with a knife, they’re little more than scraps of fabric around his shins. 

“They’re a lost cause,” Mickey says, “and I don’t think either of us want to just roll up to the Gallagher house with your cock out.”

He can’t read the expression that passes across Ian’s face. He’s half-expecting to have an argument, about what just happened, about what Terry did, and about what Mickey didn’t do, and he isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when Ian just glances down at his legs and says tightly, “I’ll take the jeans.”

—

Getting back to Ian’s house isn’t too difficult. 

Mickey hotwires a car outside the warehouse and after helping themselves to some gum from the glovebox to get the taste of blood out of their mouths, they drive back down to Canaryville with Ian slumped across the backseat. Mickey lobs a brick through the window of a decent-looking car down the street and they use the distraction of the blaring alarm to sneak in through the back door and up to Ian’s room.

The only Gallagher they run into on the way is Debbie who’s thankfully smart enough not to ask questions about why Ian’s beat to shit or why Mickey isn’t wearing pants. 

Ian collapses onto the bed as soon as they make it to the relative privacy of his bedroom, and Mickey hesitates in the doorway. Talking shit out is never his strong point, especially not something as fucked up as this, and so he opts for action instead as he ducks into the bathroom and raids the Gallagher’s cabinet for painkillers.

“Why does no-one here have any good shit,” he grumbles as he returns to set a couple of bottles of pills next to Ian’s bed. “This is like one step up from fuckin’ Midol.”

“It’s fine,” Ian says quietly. He doesn’t touch the pills.

“It’s not fine,” Mickey says. “None of this is fuckin’ fine, Christ.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ll stay clear for a while, make sure Terry’s not still lurking about like a fuckin’ psychopath, but I can hook you up with some stronger shit if you want.”

Mickey’s had enough rough sex with too little lube to know how much it can hurt afterwards but the pain seems the least of Ian’s concerns as he stares forward with glassy eyes. “I’m fine.”

The situation feels like looking in a mirror after the clusterfuck with Terry and Svetlana. Mickey feels dumb even thinking it; sure, the pistol-whipping was a match but he just had a whore bounce on his dick for a while, not three big dudes go to town on his ass. 

Nevertheless, he recognizes the numb look on Ian’s face and falls back on what he wanted in the aftermath: to be left alone, to try to forget it ever happened, and to have some way to work out his anger.

The first two are easy enough and Mickey steals the nearest pair of pants from Ian’s laundry pile before setting his gun next to the pills. 

Ian frowns, staring at it like he’s never seen a goddamn gun before. “What-”

“Thought it might help,” Mickey says, shrugging. “I don’t fuckin’ know, man.”

Ian’s frown deepens. “You want me to shoot Terry?”

“No!” He pauses. “I mean, yeah, if you want to empty a clip in his head, I’m not gonna stop you. But no, this is for…” He gestures vaguely to Ian, unsure how to phrase his suggestion of just firing off bullets in an abandoned building until he feels better. “Y’know.”

Ian’s expression goes blank and he doesn’t take his eyes off the gun when he says, voice barely audible, “Sure.”

He doesn’t invite any further conversation, which suits Mickey just fine. He’s not great at small-talk anyway, and much less when he’s making it with someone — his boyfriend? Maybe his ex now — who just got raped at gunpoint. 

“I’ll head out then,” he says. “Go see if I can kill my dad and make it look like an accident.” 

He gives an awkward wave and hates the finality in his own voice when he says, “Bye, Gallagher.”

—

It’s over a week before he sees Ian again. He keeps an eye out, drives past the Gallagher house more often than he needs to, and does regular passes of the best rooftops for cathartic shooting, but Ian’s nowhere to be found. 

Terry’s even more of an insufferable shithead than usual, brimming with smug pride about ‘teaching that goddamn queer a lesson’, as though the sanctity of Mickey’s asshole is an actual concern. Mickey avoids him as much as he possibly can and, for once in his life, does his best not to antagonize him whenever they happen to be in the same room.

In Ian’s absence (and in the semi-privacy of his room), Mickey tries jacking off a couple of times but can barely get more than a half-chub before his jerk-off fantasies are overridden by memories of the rape. 

He spends a couple of days trying to find the sweet spot between being too drunk to get it up but still being drunk enough to forget the look on Ian’s face when the last of Terry’s friends fucked him open. Unfortunately, that sweet spot continues to elude him and Mickey starts to wonder if it actually worked, if Terry actually fucked him up enough to turn him off sex.

It fucking sucks.

It’s some reassurance then that the first time his dick registers anything close to interest is when Ian shows up in his room nine days after the attack.

Mickey thinks it’s Terry at first, barging in for a piss, but he scrambles up to a sitting position when he sees Ian standing in the doorway. 

“Gallagher?” He glances past him, relieved to see that the house seems to be empty. “How’d you make it in past my dad?”

“Waited ’til he left,” Ian says. “I’m not an idiot.”

Any relief at seeing Ian (and confirming that despite Terry’s efforts, Mickey is still gay) is quickly countered by the anger in Ian’s voice as he pulls Mickey’s gun out of his pocket. 

Mickey raises his hands reflexively but rather than shooting, Ian just tosses the gun onto the bed where it smacks against Mickey’s thigh. 

“Just wanted to give you your gun back,” Ian says, shoving his hands back in his pockets. “Y’know, since I’m not planning on killing myself any time soon. Sorry to disappoint.”

Mickey’s mouth forms confused shapes before he manages to actually get any words out. “The fuck?”

“Nice try though,” Ian says sarcastically. “Really. Between the gun and what Terry did, you had a pretty convincing combination there. I figured I’d stick around though. Didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction.”

“The satisf-” Mickey runs a hand through his hair, scrambling up off the bed. “What the fuck, Ian? Since when are you fuckin’ suicidal?”

Ian frowns but doesn’t back down. “Since you gave me the fucking gun!”

“Yeah, to try to make you feel better!” He waves his hand at Ian, the same vague gesture he made over a week ago. “So you could go shoot stuff. Let off steam or something, I don’t know. Not blow your fuckin’ brains out!”

Ian hesitates at that, and Mickey shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you really think I left the gun there to get you to off yourself? What, ‘cause all that shit with Terry wasn’t enough so I wanted you dead too?” 

It kind of hurts, picturing himself like that through Ian’s eyes, and he turns away to punch the wall, replacing it with an ache that’s way easier to understand. “What the fuck, Ian?”

Ian at least has the decency to look embarrassed. His injuries have healed, except for the gash from the gun which is still closing slowly, and his face is pale when he admits, “I- I thought you were trying to help. With the pills too. I thought you were saying it would be easier if I just… Y’know.”

“No!” Mickey yells. “No, I wasn’t fuckin’ saying that! Listen, I want someone to kill themselves, I’ll be super fuckin’ clear about it, okay?” 

“What was I supposed to think?” Ian yells back, slipping back into their familiar holding pattern of arguing until someone gets punched or fucked.

“Not fuckin’ that!” Mickey retorts. “How about thinkin’ that I give a shit about you, dumbass?”

“Yeah?” Ian says, taking a step forward. “That why you dumped me back at home with a gun and some pills and just left?”

Mickey bristles. “I was tryin’ to give you space! I know how this shit works, kinda, and I just wanted to be on my own afterward. I figured you would too.”

“How about when you didn’t speak to me for a week? Did Terry’s shit actually work on you?” Ian’s lips curve in a sneer. “You didn’t want to risk being caught talking to a fag again?”

Anger burns in Mickey’s chest and he moves forward, fists clenched. “Don’t be fuckin’ stupid. Of course it didn’t fuckin’ work — I love you, you asshole.”

“Oh, right, right,” Ian says. “That why you sat there the whole time? Just watched while those fuckheads-” He swallows, looking away for a second, but there’s fury in his eyes when he looks back at Mickey. “They tie you up to stop you from helping me or to stop you from jerking off?”

Mickey’s fist slams into Ian’s gut before he can stop himself. 

Ian cries out, dropping to one knee on the floor and curling an arm around his stomach, but there’s a glint of triumph in his eyes when he looks up. 

It takes all Mickey has to resist the urge to hit him again, especially when Ian pushes himself back to his feet and says with infuriating confidence, “Figures.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Mickey snaps. “That’s bullshit and you fuckin’ know it.”

“I know enough,” Ian says, standing back upright and moving to the door. “Tip for you though: you want to top the next guy you date, try doing it yourself instead of having your dad’s buddies fuck him for you.”

“You fuckin-”

The door slams shut behind him before Mickey can even get the sentence out, and he kicks the wall with a shout of frustration. A second and third kick follow, both barely taking the edge off, and he sighs as he gives up and stalks towards the kitchen in search of another outlet for his anger. 

If he’s going to turn into a fucking mess, he decides it’s going to be at the hands of Jack Daniels instead of Ian Gallagher.


	3. Chapter 3

Part of the problem is solved six weeks later when Terry dies.

Unfortunately, Mickey has nothing to do with it; doesn’t even know about it until he gets a call from the cops. Despite the rumors that make the rounds in the neighborhood, it’s not a Colombian hit squad, or the government, or Carl Gallagher; apparently it was some scrawny loser who wound up in jail at the same time as Terry for shoplifting or cattle rustling or some other lame-ass crime. 

From what the cops told him, Terry made the guy’s life hell and when he got out, he had a mental breakdown, wanted revenge, and shot Terry in the face with a sawed-off shotgun.

It’s a hell of an embarrassing way to go and while Mickey’s feelings are more mixed than he expected at Terry’s death, the thought of the infamous Terry Milkovich being taken out by some dweeb going postal is incredibly fucking funny.

The funeral’s done cheap, with most of their money going on a celebratory wake, and by the time Mickey stumbles out of the bar just after 1am, he’s feeling significantly happier about his life. Sure, Terry dying doesn’t exactly fix things with Ian or stop Mickey thinking about the rape every time he tries to get laid, but Mickey decides to take his wins where he can find them.

Victorious and pleasantly drunk, he takes a detour past the cemetery on his way home. He’s going to need to take a leak before he makes it back to the house anyway; might as well make himself useful instead of pissing on the side of someone’s house.

He has to use the light from his phone to navigate his way through the graveyard, mumbling half-hearted apologies as he trips over the occasional gravestone and accidentally stomps on some flowers. Terry’s grave is at the back, the headstone slightly crooked from where Joey leaned on it during the funeral, but Mickey slows his pace when he sees someone standing by the grave.

From their position, the guy apparently had the same idea as Mickey but he finishes and tucks his dick back in his pants as Mickey calls out, “Hey, shithead!”

The light from his phone catches on red hair before the guy turns around, hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare. “Mickey?”

Mickey flicks the light off and pockets his phone as he walks up beside him. “The fuck you doing here?”

Ian shrugs, nodding to the damp patch of newly-laid grass in front of him. “Figured I’d pay my respects.”

It’s as close to friendly as Mickey could expect and he grins, working his cock out past his zipper. “Great minds, I guess.”

He sighs as he empties his bladder onto the grave, and when he looks over, he catches the smirk on Ian’s lips. 

“Heard he got smothered to death by some hooker,” Ian says, passing Mickey his cigarette once he zips up again.

“Man, I wish,” Mickey says wistfully. “Nah, some fuckin’ nerd lost his shit and shot him in the face.” Ian laughs at that and Mickey grins as he blows smoke out into the night air. “Pretty great still, right?”

Ian nods, his cold fingers brushing Mickey’s as he takes the cigarette back from him. “God, I hope it hurt.”

An awkward silence settles over them. It’s not that Mickey disagrees about Terry meeting a painful end, he just doesn’t know what to say next. The alcohol sends thoughts bubbling to the front of his mind and Mickey gives voice to the one that’s been bugging him the most for the last month. 

“You know I would’ve stopped them if I could, right?”

Ian glances over, confused, and Mickey looks down as he pushes on, “Terry’s friends. I figured you were just sayin’ shit ‘cause you were mad, which is fine, but you know I wouldn’t have just sat there and watched if I had a choice, right?”

It’s kind of embarrassing how much he needs Ian to agree with him but it feels like a weight lifts when Ian nods, looking equally sheepish. 

“Yeah, I know.” He flicks the butt of the cigarette to the ground and pulls out another, and accepts when Mickey offers up a light. “I don’t know why I said half the shit I did. My head was fucked up and I thought you’d ditched me and I just-” He takes a slow drag and smirks at Mickey. “It was bullshit. We both know you’d never want to top.”

Mickey laughs at that, landing a teasing punch to Ian’s shoulder as he steals the smoke. “Fuck you too, Gallagher.”

Silence descends again, marginally lighter this time, and Mickey tries to find the words for his next question. “You, uh, you ever think about it much?”

“About the shit we said?”

“No. Well, yeah, but I meant what happened. With Terry.” He passes the cigarette back and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I can’t stop fuckin’ picturing it, man. Every time I try to jack off.”

Ian looks over in surprise, an expression of disgust crossing his face, and Mickey holds his hands up. “Shit, no, not like that. I don’t _want_ to be thinkin’ about it. Ever. It just pops in there and boom-” He mimes shooting himself in the dick. “No more hard-on.”

“Same here,” Ian says. “Like we’ve got PTSD or something.”

Mickey frowns. “What, that army thing? Isn’t that for people who get shot at?”

“Mickey, we’ve both been shot at.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped me from jerking off.” He looks at Ian. “Can you get dick PTSD?”

Ian shrugs, blowing out smoke in a messy circle. “I guess? It’s all trauma or something, right?”

Mickey looks down at the front of his pants with a scowl. “Well, how do we fix it?”

“All the army stuff I saw talked about therapy and support groups and shit.”

Mickey snorts. “Fuck that.”

“No fucking way,” Ian agrees. 

A third silence, this time almost friendly, and Mickey glances over at Ian as he says eventually, “We could bang it out?”

Ian coughs, inhaling too much smoke, and Mickey takes the cigarette off him as he waits for him to get his breath back. 

“What, just-” Ian shakes his head but Mickey’s glad to see he’s smiling. “Here? Really?”

Mickey shrugs. “Sure. Seems kinda fitting, right? Closure or some shit.”

Ian hesitates. “Terry…”

“Terry’s fuckin’ dead,” Mickey points out. “You were the one pissing on his grave a minute ago but now fucking is a step too far?” 

Ian can’t keep the smirk off his face and Mickey grins as he strolls around to stand behind the gravestone. “Get in me already, asshole. See if you can actually fuck me hard enough to wake the dead.”

Ian winces at that but his smile doesn’t disappear entirely as he moves behind Mickey and works his dick out of his pants. He’s limp still but as Mickey shucks his pants down and rests his arms on the headstone, he glances back to see Ian’s dick hardening in his hand. 

“Give me a minute,” Ian says, working his cock faster as he pulls out a condom wrapper with his free hand. “It’s been a while.”

“What, you forget how to fuck?” Mickey says, looking back with a grin. “Your cock plus my asshole. It’s pretty simple, man.”

“Fuck you,” Ian says, but things are apparently working when he opens the wrapper and slides the condom on. “It’s cold out here.”

Mickey’s own dick is only at half-mast too but he gives his ass a teasing shake as he says, “You know where it isn’t cold?”

Ian rolls his eyes at the joke but steps forward anyway, gripping Mickey’s hip with one hand and pushing the other against his hole. His fingers are slippery from the lube covering the condom as he makes a perfunctory attempt at opening him up and Mickey pushes back onto his fingers impatiently. “Just fuck me already. Christ, I’m freezing my balls off here.”

He’d prefer bareback but in the absence of any other lube, the condom is a decent alternative, and Mickey grips the headstone as Ian starts to push inside. It’s been a long time since they last fucked but Ian’s still hung like a fucking racehorse and Mickey can’t contain his groan at the satisfaction of being filled up again. 

Unwanted memories appear behind his eyelids — _the dull look in Ian’s eyes when the last guy forced his head up to face Mickey, the handcuffs cutting into Mickey’s skin as he fought to get free, the sight of come splattered over Ian’s unconscious body_ — but although his erection flags for a second, he’s soon brought back to reality by the grasp of Ian’s hands against his hips and the slow thrust of his cock inside him.

From the speed at which he’s moving, Ian seems to be having some of the same hesitation as Mickey. Mickey rocks back onto his cock in encouragement, partly to anchor him here instead of in some shitty warehouse weeks ago but mostly because he’s really missed getting fucked hard by Ian and he wants that feeling back.

“Some time this year would be great, Gallagher,” he teases and laughs when Ian gives his ass a hard grope in return and begins to move faster. “Christ…”

What follows can’t really be called another silence, not with how loud their breathing is in the quiet of the cemetery, but Mickey relaxes into it nonetheless as Ian picks up the pace. He’s not great at talking, especially not talking about feelings, but when it comes to taking Ian’s dick with enthusiasm, Mickey’s in his element.

“Fuck,” Ian gasps. 

Mickey can smell the smoke on his breath still, mixed with whatever cheap beer he’s been drinking that evening, and he rests his head against the cool stone beneath him when Ian smoothes a warm hand down his spine. He clenches his ass pointedly around Ian’s cock and grunts when Ian groans and shoves him harder against the gravestone. 

The angle’s good. Between the movement of Ian’s dick inside him and the gratification of giving his shitty father the send off he deserves, Mickey can’t keep the smile off his face as he cants his ass back into Ian’s thrusts. 

Ian’s breathing is ragged when he warns, not slowing, “Mick…”

Close to his own release, Mickey just makes a noise of encouragement. (If it sounds closer to a needy whine, Ian doesn’t comment on it.) He drops his hand to his own cock, jerking in quick, familiar strokes to bring himself closer, but when Ian stiffens behind him, burying his dick deep in Mickey’s ass and coming with a cry, Mickey can’t hold out any longer.

He comes harder than he was expecting, weeks of frustration and uncertainty finally releasing, and he lets the crooked headstone take his weight as he strokes himself through it, thick spurts of come splashing onto the grass and stone beneath him.

Ian pulls out with a wet, slick noise and Mickey takes a second to catch his breath before tugging his jeans back up over his ass. 

Ian drops the condom into the dirt, nudging a clod of grass over it in a half-assed attempt at hiding the evidence, and Mickey looks back at him with a smile. “Feel better?”

Ian looks legitimately surprised when he nods. “Yeah. I kinda do. You?”

Mickey nods. It’s not like the memories have gone or anything — despite Ian’s occasional claims to the contrary, Mickey doesn’t think his dick is actually magic — but he feels better than he has in weeks. Lighter, somehow, without being emptier. “Yeah. Who needs that therapy shit, right?”

Ian laughs, leaning in to kiss him on the temple, and Mickey’s eyes catch on the mess on the back of the headstone at the same time that Ian says, “I can’t believe we just fucked on your dad’s grave.”

Mickey gives the gravestone a kick. “Least he was good for something, I guess.”

“Are we…” Ian starts, before changing approach. “So what now?”

Mickey weighs up his options for a couple of seconds. All the good options involve the two of them staying together, which is a welcome change of pace from the last few weeks, and Mickey looks at Ian as he makes a decision. 

“Wanna go back to my place and fuck on Terry’s bed?”

Ian’s grin is broad and genuine as he slings an arm around Mickey’s shoulders and says with conviction, “Absolutely.”


End file.
